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Boyd
Kieran cleans up the yard while I head inside; Fiona and Riley are huddled together on the floor by Riley’s bed when I kick in the door, not feeling patient enough to wait to see either of them.
They’re scrolling through that rock star’s social media again, Riley explaining the importance of his bad-boy brand while Fiona stuffs pretzels in her mouth, and I fall in love with her a little bit more in that moment.
She’s the embodiment of true sunshine—starlight and chaos combined, a raging ball of fire that my entire fucking universe has revolved around for months. The kind of sun I wouldn’t mind orbiting for the rest of my life.
I still feel like a dick for how I’ve treated her over the last few weeks, especially earlier today, leaving her at the restaurant while I ran home to check on my sister, but I’ll deal with that later if she lets me. I’ll spend forever trying to make it up to her.
Getting to their feet, Fiona raises an eyebrow, raking her gaze down over my form. “You look... interesting.”
Nodding at her cow pajamas, I chuckle. “So do you.”
“Touché.” Glancing at Riley, she clears her throat and clasps her hands together. “Well, I believe my brother’s outside? I’ll just go see if he needs any help.”
As she passes, she pauses like she wants to reach out and touch me, but seems to think better of it, giving me a curt nod and darting from the room.
Riley sits on the bed, her eyes glued to my hands. I start toward her, and she holds hers up, palms facing me. “Dude, you cannot sit down in here.”
“Fair enough.” I stick my hands in my pockets, rocking back on my heels, trying to figure out a way to best approach the subject.
We’d talked about what would happen if either LeeAnn or Romeo ever came to the house looking for her, ran drills where she could lock up everything and hide out in her room in under three minutes, but we never talked about what it’d mean for the two of us if the nightmares ended.
If we were no longer bound to a sense of loyalty or addiction. If the object of our insanity, the people we feared most, were eliminated, no longer pawns in our little game of chess. I open my mouth, prepared to ask how she’s feeling, when she speaks first.
“Romeo’s dead,” she says, completely devoid of any emotion. “Told you I liked Fiona.”
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “She’s not so bad, I suppose.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m gonna tell her you said that at your wedding.”
Uncomfortable silence ebbs between us, the grim reality of what happened just outside descending its ugly head, demanding discussion. My chest pulls tight, part worry and part relief—worry that Riley won’t be relieved, and relief that I’m free, regardless of how she ends up feeling.
I’m fucking free.
“So...” Riley says, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “That was some noise outside. You’re lucky the neighbors are scared of you.” Rubbing her hands on her sweatpants, she swallows, glancing up at me through hooded lashes. “Who... who was out there?”
Chewing on the inside of my lip, I exhale sharply through my nose, wanting to get this over with despite the apprehension growing inside my stomach like a tornado, wild and imposing. “LeeAnn.”
Her fingers curl into fists, knuckles blooming white with the pressure, and she pinches her eyes closed, dropping her chin to her chest. Nodding over and over, I think she’s broken for a moment, but then she’s inhaling deeply and straightening her shoulders.
When she looks up, her baby blues are glassy but not leaking, and she huffs out a humorless laugh. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
I shrug, discomfort wedging into the cracks in my heart. “It’s okay to be sad. She was still your mom.”
“Are you sad?”
There’s the tiniest sliver of a pinprick that shoots down my spine at her question—it’s quick, just a flash of grief, but it’s gone before I have a chance to latch onto it and dissect its meaning. Deep down, part of me is sad, but it’s mostly when I think about all the time I lost out on trying to be what my mother needed, not realizing that it wasn’t attainable.
Selfish people are just selfish, and they don’t give out pieces of their hearts like the rest of us. They hoard them close to their chests, doling love out when it’s convenient. Sometimes, like with LeeAnn, not even then.
Sometimes it’s all pain, all the time.
Her anguish echoes in my head, a reminder of everything she did to the two of us—people whose only crimes were existing.
So, no. I’m not sad.
Not even a little bit.
